 | My Last Visit to My Mother |  |
My Last Visit to My Mother
By
COUNT ILYA TOLSTOY
WITH all the other appalling news from Russia comes word of the devastation of the home of Leo Tolstoy and the burning of his manuscripts. This news is so horrible that I cannot believe it is true. I cannot believe the people can be so blinded as to attack a helpless old woman, the widow of the greatest man of Russia, and destroy the precious relics that have no other value except that of preserving the memory of this man.
Yasnaya Polyana is the Mecca and Medina of the Russian people. Here lived the greatest soul of Russia, the "Conscience of the World," as many called him during his lifetime. At times a man refuses to listen to the voice of this conscience. Its admonitions torment him. He tries to flee from it. But these efforts are vain. The more he endeavors to free himself, the greater is the torture.
Poor Russian people, you are so blinded and intoxicated by the light of liberty, which came to you so suddenly, that after centuries of slavery you do not see this light and you do not understand.
Before leaving Russia to sail for America a few weeks ago, I desired to see my mother at Yasnaya Polyana. I left Moscow on a night train, and at eight o'clock I was at the small station of Zasieka, next the town of Tula. I had no carriage, and as the distance is only two miles, I made the trip on foot. It was in the beginning of October. The untraveled road, bordered on both sides by woods, was miry and muddy. The yellow leaves, already falling, formed a soft carpet on which I trod. I was alone, and my mind was full of thoughts and reminiscences.
I recalled how seven years ago I had walked over this same road, together with a crowd of thousands of people, a procession following the coffin in which my father lay. That was also in the autumn, in the gray fog of the morning. It reminded me of those significant days when my father, burning with a desire for a complete change in his way of living, left forever the roof of his ancestors; when, morally invincible, he of his own free will went forth to meet death.
Since that time many changes have come to Yasnaya Polyana. The house where my father dwelt is no longer the place to which the intellect of the world looks for the solution of moral doubts and the answer to spiritual questioning, the refuge of conscience. How many interesting people used to visit my father! Here one could see representatives of all classes and of all nations. Beggars came for the usual ten copecks that my father was accustomed to give them. These people used to gather under a large tree in front of the house, and my father would speak with each one of them about his life. He never left them without giving them words of consolation.
Visitors from Europe and America were always received with a warm hospitality. Almost all of the prominent persons of Russia and many celebrities from all parts of the world were guests at my father's home, writers, scientists, musicians, painters, sculptors, and even politicians. All were welcome there. He had the rare capacity to give to each one with whom he talked something of special interest and also to draw from every one something that was interesting to himself.
Now the home of my father is silent. The inhabitants of the house are widows, my mother, my mother's sister, and my own sister, together with her daughter, a charming little girl of about eight years. Everything is quiet in the house. My father's rooms are closed, and are kept by my mother exactly as they were when he left them. His bed is made as it was during his life. Over the head of the bed hangs the picture of my eldest sister. On a little table beside his bed are his watch and medicine-bottles. In another room are his writing-table, book-cases, and bookshelves. Some of the books he was reading before his departure lie opened just as he left them. Over the walls one sees pictures of his father, his brother, and of other members of his family. Here are also pictures of Dickens, Schopenhauer, and a large portrait of Henry George which was brought to him by Mr. George's son.
When you enter these rooms it seems as though my father were still living there, as though he had left it only a few moments ago, and might return at any minute. The large dining-room, which also was the reception-room of the house, is open. On the walls of this room are pictures of my father's ancestors. They are faded and blurred by the lapse of centuries. Here you see my great-grandfather, Count Ilya Tolstoy, for whom I am named, a kind-looking old gentleman who squandered an enormous fortune on festivals and various caprices and gaieties. He liked French wines best, and he used to send messengers to France by post to procure them. He could not tolerate linen laundered in Russia, so he had it sent by post to Holland. All this was one hundred and twenty years ago, before even the idea of railroads had entered the mind of man.
Here is another picture of another ancestor of mine, Prince Volkinsky, a proud old nobleman of the end of the eighteenth century, the former owner of the property of Yasnaya Polyana and the builder of the estate.
Again you see the picture of Prince Gorchakoff, father-in-law of Count Ilya Tolstoy, a handsome old gentleman with a periwig of the times of Catharine the Great; also the picture of the mother of Prince Gorchakoff, born Princess Mordkin, with a rosary around her neck. On the other side of the wall you see the pictures of my father, my two sisters, my mother, and some busts. These portraits were made by the best Russian artists, Repin, Gai, Kramskoi, Seroff, and Prince Troubetskoy. I love this room. It makes me think of the life of many past generations. My own brightest reminiscences are also associated with it. Here I spent my childhood, my youth, and many of the best hours of my life.
That morning, a few weeks ago, when I entered the house I was welcomed by the old servant who has been with us for more than twenty-five years, Ilya Vasilievitch.
"The countess has risen. Will you please go up-stairs?" he said.
My mother was waiting for me at the top of the stairway. Although seventyfour years old, still she is in good health, active, erect, with hair not entirely gray.
"I knew that you would come, and I was expecting you," she said in greeting me. "Do you wish a cup of tea?"
"Yes," I answered.
The same large samovar that I remember for forty years was boiling on the table. Nothing had been changed. I felt that everything has remained as it had been for forty years. The only difference was that the door leading to my father's rooms was closed, and I felt that it would never open, that I would never again see in its frame the form of an old man dressed in a long, gray blouse, with large, gray eyes looking from under thick and drooping eyebrows. His eyes were so penetrating, that it was impossible to stand his gaze for any length of time. I always felt that he could see the depths of my soul. I could see his eyes looking at me now from Repin's portrait of him. Still, they are not quite his. No brush in the world could paint the living power of those eyes.
The life in Russia at the present time is very difficult for every one, including my mother. Even in Yasnaya Polyana, where everything speaks of my father's thought for the common people, where three generations of peasants were educated under his immediate influence, where he himself taught the peasants' children not only fifty years ago, but also in recent years, and where almost all the property that belonged to my father was distributed free among the people—even here the Revolution has brought deprivations. Not more than two weeks before my visit a mob of peasants—women, girls, and children from three surrounding villages—broke into our orchard and for three consecutive days stripped the trees of apples. The very day of my arrival the gardener came to my mother and told her that her cabbages had been stolen from the garden. Such lawlessness oppressed my mother. She did not wish to violate the principles which my father had held and preached; therefore she was unwilling to summon the police, the only aid to which she could resort. All this troubled her greatly.
The material side of life has other difficulties for her also. She had enough wheat to last only a few weeks. She is not able to buy it in other places, because of a new law in Russia that does not allow transportation of wheat from one place to another. Although her household is not large, still she feels obliged to maintain some of her old servants, who have been in the house for more than thirty years. She cannot dismiss them, because they are bound to our family by mutual love and attachment.
It is true that she could leave her home and live in the city, but she fears to do so. She fears to leave this house, where everything is full of the memory of her great husband. So she remains there as a faithful guard over his rooms, his library, and his relics. All that is precious not only to her and to our family, but also to every Russian.
While I was speaking with my mother, my sister and aunt entered the room. The conversation then became general. When I told them I was on my way to America, they all envied me. They asked me many questions about my last visit to America. In Russia, where now there is such a chaos of ideas, of political parties, and such a constantly changing current of thought, the organized and orderly life of America seems to be unattainable and unbelievable.
As everywhere now in Russia, the conversation turned to politics and the Revolution. We recalled the ideas of my father on this subject; recalled how strongly he used to deplore every form of violence and all excesses of revolutions. He used to say that the distance between the revolutionists, using violence, and true Christians was the greatest distance that can exist between two divisions of people. He used to illustrate the idea as follows:
"Imagine a broken ring. On the one side of the opening are the Christians, on
He used to say that he could not see any difference between the despotism of the czar and the despotism of any other ruler, and that a revolution could not contribute to the happiness of the common people. As every government exploits the people, he could see no difference between exploitation by one man and exploitation by another. After the Russian Revolution of 1905, he wrote in his diary:
"It is a very strange idea that one government must be replaced by another. Our duty is to explain that this is a false idea, and we must struggle against it. The best means of correcting this false idea is not to participate in what is wrong, but to explain the principles that will make evil impossible to justify. Every change in the form of government produced by violence would inevitably lead to another change that would have to be brought about also by violence. And all these changes are wrong, because every revolution lowers the morale of the country. . . .
"I was thinking to-day about the state of mind of the people who are taking active part in the Revolution. The principles that guide these people are envy, greed, and malice. These people have only to complain, and immediately there are at hand promoters of evil sentiments to encourage them in their discontent. Therefore the sin rests not upon the people, but upon the leaders. . . . The active forces of the Revolution are the press and agitators. These are moved by ambition, selfishness, and vanity, and also by envy and hatred. We must have compassion upon these miserable people, who are infected by this poison. We must exercise every power not only to free ourselves from it, but also to free others."
Recalling these words and applying them to the present events, we are forced to see that he was certainly right.
But, unfortunately, no one in Russia listens to his voice at the present time. People who share his ideas are forced to remain silent. The propaganda of the Bolsheviki has nothing in common with my father's ideas. Their policy is based upon violence. All the moral teachings of my father are based upon love and the entire repudiation of every kind of violence.
The seeds planted by him are still living. During the last year the interest in his philosophical ideas has increased visibly. For example, the number of visitors at the Tolstoy Museum in Moscow and in Petrograd last year was three times as great as in any previous year.
The educated class of Russia, the class whose moral and scientific enlightenment is greater than is found in any other place in the world, is still living in Russia. Certainly the time will come when these people will be able to make themselves heard. I see the coming of this day. It is not far distant.
In the evening of my visit home the peasants of the village of Yasnaya Polyana showed themselves to be in sympathy with us. They held a meeting and denounced the attack made upon my mother's home. Remembering the many favors my father had done for them, they promised to protect all her property, and even expressed regret that her orchards and gardens had been looted by members of their families.
How typical is this little episode! How well it illustrates the state of mind of the whole Russian nation at the present time! Is not all Russia abusing the great idea of liberty? But I already hear the words of penitence that are coming. I hear these words in the mouths of millions of people.
That is what I thought on my way back to the station. The night was dark, and the ruts in the road were full of mud. In the midst of this darkness the stars shone brightly, inspiring hope and confidence.
| My Last Visit to My Mother | |